


The Xavier-Lehnsherr Academy for the Gifted: 1973

by listerinezero



Series: 1973 [1]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: 1970s, Canon Disabled Character, Charles Is Not A Delicate Teacup, Christmas, Clothing, Convenience Store, Domestic, Endearments, Established Relationship, Families of Choice, Family, Fix-It, Fluff, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, Kid Fic, M/M, Ode to Bald Charles, Okay more like Teenager Fic, Post-Canon, Recreational Drug Use, Seasonal Affective Disorder, Slightly Out Of Character But Who's Counting, Snuggling for warmth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-08
Updated: 2012-12-08
Packaged: 2017-11-20 15:26:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 14,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/586859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/listerinezero/pseuds/listerinezero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A year in the life of Charles Xavier and Erik Lehnsherr, co-founders of the world's first school for mutants, one month at a time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. January 1973

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pocky_slash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocky_slash/gifts).



> Written for **pocky_slash** for the 2012 Secret Mutant holiday exchange, filling as many of her prompts/wants/favorite tropes as I possibly could! I hope you like the story, pocky_slash, and thank you for organizing this whole thing! Sending you lots of holiday cheer!
> 
> Many thanks to **turtletotem** and **unforgotten** for beta reading and cheering me on.

After all these years, most everyone has figured out not to bother trying to wake Charles in the middle of the night. He takes enough sedatives at bedtime to level an army – or drown out a school full of anxious adolescent minds, whichever comes first. As a result, Erik has gotten used to being the one woken up at ungodly hours to deal with emergencies ranging from fires to floods to teenage drama. Charles usually sleeps through it. Either that or he wakes up halfway through the event to an empty bed and groggily sends Erik a telepathic message along the lines of, _What's wrong, darling? Do you need me?_ Which Erik usually answers with, _Go back to sleep, Charles_.

Even so, Erik still can't understand why everyone seems to take it for granted that nothing will wake Charles. Just because he's taken a triple dose of tranquilizers doesn't mean people should be going around making a racket when he’s trying to sleep.

Like when Beast throws open their bedroom door, flooding the room with bright light and cold winter air at 12:45am. He doesn't knock. He doesn't even bother whispering when he says, “Erik? Erik, wake up. We need you downstairs.”

Erik sits up and rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Would you please keep your voice down? For godssake you're going to wake Charles.”

Charles lets out a heavy snore as Erik gets out of bed and puts on his slippers.

“Sorry,” says Beast, “but this can't wait.”

Erik throws on his robe and steps out into the hallway. “What is it?”

“Another runaway, it looks like. There's a cabbie in the foyer looking for someone to pay him for the trip up from Penn Station.”

Erik rolls his eyes and turns back.

“Where are you going?” Beast asks.

“To get Charles' wallet.” He checks Charles’ dresser, his pants pocket, then finally finds the wallet tucked into a pouch on Charles’ wheelchair. Luckily, it's filled with cash.

Young mutants have begun appearing at their doors unannounced more and more often as the school has become more visible; these unexpected cab fares have become so routine that Charles has started building them into the school's budget. Erik can't imagine why, then, Beast seems so agitated this time. This isn't the first time this has happened – this isn't even the first time this month. Even so, as Erik pays the driver and sends him on his way, Beast is fidgeting and hovering nervously nearby.

“Well?” Erik asks when the cab driver is gone. “Where's the kid?”

“I told her to have a seat inside.”

“Has she called her parents?”

“Not yet. She-- That's why...” Beast fumbles for his words. “I thought I should go get you first.”

Erik frowns. “Why? What's wrong with her?”

“Nothing! She's great. It's just that she says... she said you're her father.”

“What?”

“That's what she said.”

Some of the children who have arrived at the school unannounced, especially the younger ones, have walked in with wild stories – anything from saying they're fugitives to fortune tellers to saying they have two days to live – just to make sure that they wouldn't be turned away at the door. This is a new one, but it still fits the pattern.

Erik pulls his robe a little tighter and steps into the sitting room. There's a girl there all right, though with a story like that one, he was expecting her to be younger. By her clothes and slouch, he guesses she's closer to fourteen or fifteen years old. She's got her hair dyed bleach blond, which is a bit unusual. The look is out of fashion compared to the hippie style of the rest of her things, and the dye job is so poorly done it's got an almost greenish tinge to it. When she notices him hovering and watching her, she freezes, then slowly stands to greet him.

“Good evening,” Erik says. “Welcome to the Xavier-Lehnsherr Academy for the Gifted. For future reference, there are plenty of pay phones at Penn Station. Next time you can call us collect, and we can have someone drive down and pick you up. You might have to ride in a car with Banshee for two hours, but it's a lot cheaper than taking a cab.”

“Are you Magneto?” she asks carefully.

“Yes, but the students call me Professor Lehnsherr.”

“Oh. What are you a professor of?”

“Nothing, really. But it sounds better than 'hey you.'” The joke falls flat, so he continues. “What's your name?”

“Lorna Dane.”

“Where are you from?”

“California.”

“That's a long trip.”

She nods.

“You're probably very tired. Let's find you a room, and then you can call your parents to let them know you're safe. We can figure the rest out in the morning, all right?”

“No,” she says.

“No?”

“I mean...” She fingers the ends of her sleeves, and for a moment she looks so familiar, though Erik can't place it. “I mean, you're Magneto, right?”

“Professor Lehnsherr.”

“I saw you on TV. I...” She’s trembling, just slightly. “I think you're my father.” As he's gearing up to let her down gently and assure her that she can drop the act – she's welcome to stay – she stops him. “Your mutation is magnets, right? Magnetic fields? Me, too.”

Erik tries to pretend he's not curious, but they've met hundreds of mutants over the past few years, and not one has had powers similar to his. The truth is he's a little excited. “Really?”

Lorna nods. “Can you feel it when I do this?” she asks, and pushes a ripple of magnetism at him.

Erik nearly gasps. “Yes, I can feel that. I’ve never— I’ve never felt that from another person before.” He grins. “That's very cool. Can you do that again?”

She does, and adds, “And when I push against it, like, this, I can lift off the ground.” She moves her hands to her sides and makes a pushing motion, and just for a second, her feet leave the carpet. She drops down from her inch-and-a-half liftoff looking slightly embarrassed. “That wasn't very good.”

“No,” Erik says. “That's amazing. I bet if you work at it you could fly.” That makes her smile. “But just because our powers are similar doesn't mean we're related. There are five telekinetics in this house and none of them are related.”

When she starts to look disappointed, Erik gets some of Charles' welcome lines ready – Charles is much better at greeting the new kids than he is. Charles is warm and friendly and radiates how thrilled he is to meet a new student. He makes them feel at home. Erik is more of an acquired taste.

“You don't have to be a blood relative to be welcome here. This is a home for all mutants, no matter who you are or where you come from,” he tells her, mimicking Charles. “Since you're under eighteen, you will need your parents' permission to stay, but if you're in trouble or you're frightened – no matter what happens, we will be here for you. We are a family here, whether you're blood-related or not.”

“No, you don't understand,” Lorna says. “That's not it. My mom always told me that my father died in the war before I was born, but I don’t think that’s true. I think that’s just part of her whole pacifist thing, and anyway I don’t even think Vietnam had started yet. And then I saw you on TV and you have the same powers as I do almost and we look alike – don't you think we look alike?”

Come to think of it, they do look a little alike. Her eyes are the same color as his and they have the same shape face, though hers is still a bit rounded and child-like. She also has the same tall and lanky stature that he did at fifteen. But still, that doesn't mean anything.

“What about my mom?” she presses. “Do you know my mom?”

“What's her name?”

“Sunshine.”

“Sunshine?”

“She changed it a couple of years ago. It was Barbara.”

Erik rolls his eyes. Hippies.

“She told me his name was Erik. I'm not making this up, I swear I'm not,” she says.

“I'm not accusing you of it.”

“I was born in 1958. Are you sure you don't know her? Barbara?”

Barbara in California around '57 or '58. No, actually, come to think of it, he's not sure he didn't know a Barbara. Barbara Dane. And then Lorna makes that face again and this time Erik can place it: she looks just like his mother.

His heart begins to race.

 _Erik? What's wrong, love? Is everything all right?_ He feels Charles call out to him through a sleepy haze. _Do you need me?_

_Yes!_

 

*

 

Erik met Barbara in a tiki bar in San Francisco in January of 1958. It was his first time in California and, not unlike Lorna 15 years later, he'd taken a train across the country only to find that he had no money. His wallet must have been stolen at some point during the trip – he refused to believe he'd simply lost it. With no wallet, no money, no one he knew and nowhere to go, he wandered into one of those Pacific Islands-themed bars that had become popular thanks to aging veterans' hazy memories of serving in the South Seas. Barbara was sidled up to the bar drinking something enormous with more fruit in the glass than booze, clearly looking for a good time. Erik decided he'd show her one, and maybe in return she'd let him sleep in her bed and eat out of her fridge for a day or two while he tried to figure out what to do about his missing wallet.

He ended up staying with Barbara for two and a half weeks. He quite liked her. It turned out she was a cocktail waitress at that bar and she got him a job bartending there in the afternoons to make a few bucks. She was energetic and fun and chatty and opinionated and had the kind of personality that filled a room, leaving no space for things like depression or revenge fantasies or mourning. Sure, he spent their entire time in bed together thinking about Paul Newman or the other bartender (Ted “Rocky” Moorehead, whose Hawaiian shirt never seemed to be buttoned), but it would take him couple more years to figure out that little detail. All in all, his weeks with Barbara in San Francisco were one of the few good times in those dark years.

He never thought he'd see her again, and he never wanted to. After a couple weeks, he took his tip money and took off. His mission was only beginning. He couldn't hang around California mixing rum drinks. He wished her well and then completely, purposely, forgot about her.

He certainly never thought he'd end up calling her in the middle of the night while their teenage daughter and his partner look on, listening to her shriek and threaten his life and manhood if anything happens to her baby. Apparently her pacifism only goes so far – perhaps she and Erik have more in common that he would have thought.

The conversation isn't nearly as bad as it could have been. They discover that Barbara (Sunshine, yes she really does call herself that – it seems that being called Barbie doesn't get you very far in certain circles) knows all about their school and all about who Erik has become, and Lorna throws a fit at her mother for hiding it from her all that time. When the screaming match finally dies down, Lorna is allowed to stay.

Erik can't tell if he's thrilled or terrified or humiliated or what he's feeling, but Charles is gently patting his back and sleepily sending him telepathic waves of comfort and love and, oddly enough, excitement. There's something underlying all of it that makes him think that Charles is a little bit giddy about all this, even if it's making Erik vaguely nauseous.

When Lorna's hung up the phone and turned back to them, the expression on her face makes Erik think that her feelings are more in line with his than with Charles’. There's a distinct “what have I done” look in her eyes, and she doesn't speak: just looks back and forth between the two of them anxiously and fiddles with a string at the end of her sleeve. She looks simultaneously terrified and determined. She looks just like his mother.

“Well, I hope you've brought some warmer clothes with you,” Charles says with a smile, breaking the silence. “I know you're used to San Francisco, but it gets very cold here in the winter. Do you have a winter coat?”

She shakes her head no.

“We'll have to get one for you, then. In the meantime, come along with me – we have a room all made up for surprise students like this, and there are plenty of warm blankets in there waiting for you.” Charles wheels himself down the hallway, chatting cheerfully while Erik and Lorna follow him in silence, both trying not to be caught staring at each other. “And it's all yours – you'll have a roommate once we get you settled, but for tonight you'll have your own room and your own bathroom. If there is anything you need, please don't hesitate to ask. Believe me, we've heard it all before.”

They reach the room and Charles pushes the door open, allowing Lorna in first, then Erik, who's carrying her suitcase.

Still Charles is the only one who speaks: “Would you like a glass of warm milk? Or a cup of tea? A bite to eat before bed?”

Lorna shakes her head, then squeaks, “No, thank you.”

“All right, then. Breakfast-slash-roll call is at 8:00, but for tomorrow you can feel free to skip it and sleep in if you like – when you're awake, Erik and I will give you the tour and welcome you to the school properly.”

Lorna nods, and so does Charles.

“Have a good night, and we'll see you in the morning.”

“Thank you for letting me stay,” says Lorna. “I’m sorry about barging in like this. I just thought…”

“My dear, you are more than welcome,” Charles smiles. “Sleep well.”

Erik watches as Charles wheels his chair back out towards the door, but doesn't yet move himself. He feels he should say something, but his eyes dart to the floor when they meet Lorna's, and all he can do is mumble, “Good night.” He wanted to say, “Good night, Lorna,” but he wasn’t brave enough to say her name out loud, not just yet.

“Good night,” she mumbles back, and with that he follows Charles into the hallway and shuts the door behind him.

Charles is smiling up at him with shining eyes. “Oh, Erik...” he begins to say, but Erik shakes his head to stop him.

“Let's just... Let's go back to bed.”

There's no way that Charles doesn't pick up on the frantic acrobatics Erik's mind is doing as they head back to their bedroom, but mercifully he doesn't say anything about it. All he does is hold Erik's hand and allow him to take control of the wheelchair – the low level use of his powers can be calming when he's anxious like this, especially when the metal in question is as familiar as Charles' chair. They bypass the elevator, walking hand in hand up the wide grand staircase instead, Charles floating along at Erik's side.

Their bedroom is chilly when they return. Charles left the door open and it's cold enough in the room now that they're both eager to climb back under the four comforters Charles has on their bed. Erik usually ends up kicking them off in the middle of the night when he gets overheated, but now he snuggles in beneath them and rests his head on Charles' chest.

It's ironic, Erik thinks, as he arranges Charles' legs to tangle with his own. Charles loves children and craves family so desperately, and between the two of them, Charles is the one who still claims to be attracted to women. Forget “claims”: the man slept with half the female population of Oxford. If anyone was taking bets on which of them would have a love-child out in the world somewhere, the odds-on favorite would have been Charles.

Erik, on the other hand, doesn't think he was ever attracted to women. He looks back on his marriage to Magda and his occasional flings in the time between her and Charles and wonders what he was thinking, why he didn’t see then how disconnected he was, how half-hearted those relationships were. He wonders sometimes if that unconscious loneliness, that unrealized sexual frustration, was part of why he felt so angry all the time when he was younger. Not that he didn’t have good reason to be angry, and not that he isn’t still angry, but slowly, in the years after he met Charles, he's learned how to put that all away at the end of the day and climb into bed and be happy, and enjoy his life. That was a feeling he never found with a woman, not even his first love, his childhood sweetheart, his wife. He loved her so much; he didn't even realize he wasn't giving her all that he had. He had no idea how much more there could be.

“I can't believe you have a daughter,” Charles whispers into the dark, carding his fingers through Erik's hair.

“I can't believe I have a daughter with a woman who calls herself Sunshine.”

Erik can feel Charles' smile when he kisses the top of his head. “Yes, that's much worse than having dozens of children with a man who calls himself Professor X.”

“That's different. We're not just some dumb hippies.”

Charles hums his agreement and strokes his fingers along Erik's sideburns, which now reach almost to his jawline. “She is just like you, you know. I can already tell.”

“Poor kid.”

“This is going to be a good thing. You'll see.”

Erik doesn't say anything, just pulls Charles a little closer and closes his eyes.


	2. February 1973

This winter feels like it may never end. It began with a frigid and dark October and shows no signs of stopping, with snowstorms every week and cloudy skies every day in between. Charles is beginning to forget what the sun looks like; it sets a little after five o'clock, long before he finishes his work and can leave his office for any length of time. Perhaps the sun has forgotten him, too.

He can feel it beginning to affect him. He can't concentrate. Nothing seems important anymore. His classes, his administrative duties, his physical therapy, it all feels like busy work, like something useless to pass the time because he's supposed to and because it's only marginally better than laying in bed all day reading and daydreaming. Lately, in the mornings, he finds himself in bed long past his alarm, staring out the window and wondering if it would really be so bad if he did just that: just stayed in bed and napped the rest of the day.

Erik would never allow it. But then, Erik is in Sao Paulo recruiting, and would never have to know what a funk Charles has been in since he left.

And the funk is not because he didn't get to go to Sao Paulo along with him, Charles tells himself over and over. Charles has long since stopped getting upset because he can't go on overseas recruiting missions. He has more than enough responsibility right here in New York, and though traveling to exotic locations with Erik in the name of mutant rights is exactly the sort of adventure he'd longed for, once upon a time, he knows that what he does here is just as important – more important, even. The school's legitimacy depends on having at least one of them be respectable, on having one of them for people to point to and say, “I trust him with my children.” Charles is that person. This whole life that they've built depends on Charles being that person, and Charles will give almost anything to keep this life. Besides, he still gets to go on domestic trips; he would much rather travel with Erik to California or the Carolina coast than dirty, grimy, smoggy Sao Paolo anyway. Even if it is summer there.

And it's not because Erik is gone. They need their time apart sometimes, especially around this time of year, when they're both skirting the edges of cabin fever. Charles likes having their suite to himself once in a while. He likes playing Janis Joplin albums without Erik there to critique his taste in music, likes snacking in bed, likes doing his exercises without Erik's running commentary in the background, likes inviting Moira over and actually being able to enjoy her company (rather than having to sit back and listen to the two of them bicker for hours on end). As a matter of fact, Charles looks forward to Erik going away without him, and he especially looks forward to Erik returning  – Erik is rarely more attentive or affectionate than he is when he's been away from Charles for a week or two.

But it doesn't feel like a welcome break this time. Charles is getting lonely. Charles's days are feeling shapeless, no matter that his routine or his class schedule has not changed, not in years. It's only the winter blues, but he feels it getting worse.

So just this once, he cancels his Mutant Ethics class. He gives the students an assignment to work on until next time, and instead puts on a coat, grabs a blanket, a cup of tea, and a novel, and goes outside. Erik would scold him for it, for all of it – for going out in the cold, for neglecting his work, for choosing this novel instead of the one Erik's been nagging him to read for a year now – but as soon as he feels the hazy sunlight on his face, he knows he made the right decision. Class will resume tomorrow. Charles needs to see the sun.


	3. March 1973

Charles' daily training sessions are much better attended than Erik's. Especially by the girls.

(“It's only because they all have crushes on you. They think you look like Paul McCartney,” Erik tells him.

“Rapidly balding Paul McCartney,” Charles grumbles, and Erik kisses his thinning hair.)

His looks have nothing to do with it. The truth is that many of the students are terrified of training with Erik, and rightly so. Erik believes in trial by fire and has a well-earned reputation for pushing children off the roof. As a result, it's generally the boys who are trying to look tough in front of each other that show up at Erik's sessions.

Charles doesn’t go easy on the students, but his style is a little bit gentler. He wants to encourage them. He wants them to feel good about themselves. He wants them to unleash their powers because they can, because they have beautiful gifts that they should embrace and wield with pride, not because they're risking a visit to the hospital if they don't.

Kitty Pryde, for example. When she first arrived at school, she went to one of Professor Lehnsherr's training sessions. He pushed her into a wall when she wasn’t expecting it, thinking her phasing instinct would kick in, and instead she broke her nose. Erik never wanted to hurt her and he apologized profusely, but Kitty has attended Charles’ sessions ever since.

She’s blossomed under Charles. She’s learned so much quicker than most of the other students, and at sixteen, she has nearly as much control over her abilities as the adults do.

It’s surprising, then, when Charles looks over to her during an afternoon training session and finds her hanging out in the back corner of the room, goofing off with some of the other girls.

(Lorna amongst them: her adolescent desire to train with her friends won out over her curiosity about training with Erik. Charles has tried to get him to reach out to her more, but it's no use. He only pouts and says she's better off without him. It reminds Charles of when he and Erik first met, when, rather than admit that there was something between them, Erik decided on his own that it was impossible and tried to run away. Unfortunately Lorna seems equally adept at avoiding emotional confrontations, and no matter how much Charles tries to meddle, he doesn't think they've done much more than stare moodily at each other from across the dining room since she arrived.)

From the looks of it, the girls don't appear do be doing anything more than gossiping. It’s not that Charles wants to discourage them from socializing – he remembers being that age and not having many friends; he wouldn’t wish it on anyone – but this is not the time for idleness, and some of those girls really need the practice.

He leaves the eight year old boy who can create duplicates of himself for a moment and wheels over towards the girls. As he approaches, he hears Kitty’s voice.

“You have to focus, but also clear your mind,” she’s telling Lorna. “The Professor says you need to find the point between rage and serenity, and that’s where you’ll get the best focus.”

It stops Charles in his tracks.

Sometimes Charles questions what they’re doing at the school, whether it’s all worth it, whether they’ll ever get anywhere, whether they’ll ever make a real difference in the world. But Kitty is teaching the other girls. She's teaching Erik's daughter, using the same words of encouragement he gave to Erik. The next generation is already here.

Kitty looks over to him. “Yes, Professor?”

“Nothing,” Charles says, beaming at her. “Carry on.”


	4. April 1973

“How dare you!” Charles shouts, his fury ricocheting throughout his office. “How dare you embarrass me like that?”

“I don’t care if you’re embarrassed,” Erik says. “I won’t let you put yourself in danger.”

“I am perfectly capable of visiting Columbia University for an afternoon!”

“Not without me you’re not!”

Charles is fuming. It’s one thing for Erik to be a little overprotective of him, but to tell him he’s “not allowed to go” somewhere – in the middle of a staff meeting, in front of everyone – treating him like a spoiled child and undermining his authority – it’s beyond the pale.

“Do you have any idea what could happen to you?” Erik continues. “New York is dangerous, Charles, I’m not letting you go wandering around the city alone.”

“I will not be wandering around the city alone! I’m visiting the genetics department – what do you imagine we’ll be doing? LSD? And even if I was planning to ‘wander around the city’, I can take care of myself.”

“You are not going without me!”

“Yes I fucking am!”

“What if you get hit by a car? What if someone tries to mug you? What if the building is not accessible?”

“Do you think I haven’t already confirmed that the building is accessible? Do you think I haven’t informed them that I use a wheelchair? What do you want to do, Erik? Hold my hand while I cross the street? Do you want me to promise I’ll stop and look both ways at the crosswalk? That I won’t take candy from strangers?”

“You’re behaving like a child.”

“You’re treating me like one! I am an adult and I am your partner and your equal, and I expect you to treat me accordingly. If you want to play overprotective dad, you have a perfectly good teenage daughter to embarrass. Or have you forgotten about Lorna? You’ve barely spoken to her since she’s been here.”

“Don’t change the subject!”

“The poor girl thinks you must hate her, the way you’ve been avoiding her. Or did you think that sulking and brooding about her would magically make the two of you get along?”

“My relationship with Lorna is none of your business!”

“Nor is my work at Columbia any of yours!”

“This isn’t about your work! This is about your safety!”

“You act like I’m this delicate, fragile little teacup that’s going to shatter at any moment.”

“You are fragile!”

“I'm fragile? You put a bullet in my back and I’m still here yelling at you! How’s that for fragile?”

Every bit of metal in the room twitches.

“Do what you want, Charles. You obviously don’t care what I have to say.” Erik turns to walk out.

“Not when you undermine me and treat me like your little pet in front of my staff! I can make my own decisions and take care of my bloody self! I’m going to Columbia next week - without you - and that’s final!”

“Fine!”

“And I’m sleeping on the couch tonight, so don’t wait up.”

Erik turns back to Charles, fire in his eyes. “Like hell you are!”

“And why shouldn’t I?”

“It’s bad for your back! You’ll get a pinched nerve. You’re not sleeping on the couch!”

Charles doesn’t know what to do but scream. “Do you ever listen to me? Ever? Get out, Erik! Go! I’m not having this conversation with you any longer.”

Erik storms out. On the other side of the door, the entire staff of the Xavier-Lehnsherr Academy is trying to pretend they weren’t listening. That is, everyone save Raven, who has her arms crossed over her chest and is glaring at the both of them equally.

 

*

 

Charles finds Erik stretched out on the couch in the living room of their suite later that night. The blanket he's hastily draped over himself is too short, leaving his bare feet sticking out the bottom. Charles wheels over beside him, saying quietly, with some humor, “I don’t know why you bother pretending you’re asleep when I can obviously tell the difference.”

Erik opens one eye. “I’m staying right here. I don’t care how much it annoys you – I’m not letting you sleep on the couch. You can be just as mad at me from the bed.”

“You're right – I shouldn't sleep on the couch. I won't threaten it again. Next time we fight I’ll threaten to make you sleep on the couch.”

Erik opens both eyes.

“Raven gave me rather a stern talking to,” says Charles.

“Good.”

“I’m sorry for the things I said earlier. I crossed the line, and for that, I apologize.”

Erik’s jaw clenches. “You know, you have an uncanny ability to always say exactly the thing that will hurt the most, no matter what we’re fighting about.”

“I know,” Charles sighs. He does know. Erik is not the first person to accuse him of this: Raven, earlier lovers, friends – he’s always had a knack for finding the most unforgivable comment and saying it. He never seems to realize it until after the fact. So far, at least, Erik has always forgiven Charles’ unforgivable moments, just as Charles has forgiven Erik’s.

“I noticed you weren’t at dinner,” Charles continues. “Neither was Lorna.”

“What's the matter? Were you worried?” Erik snaps. “I thought we weren’t allowed to worry about each other.”

“I wasn’t worried,” Charles says, rolling his eyes. “I’m just being nosy. Did you go out?”

Erik pulls the blanket up closer to his chin. “I asked her if she would like to join me for a walk into town. We went to the bookstore and then I took her out to dinner.”

Charles smiles. “Sounds like you had a nice time.”

Erik's mind is echoing with pleasant memories of the evening and relief that there's hope for his and Lorna's relationship after all. But he doesn’t say anything more about Lorna. Instead he asks, “Are you going to let me come with you to Columbia next week?”

“No.”

“Charles…”

“I know you worry about me, and I know you only have my best interest at heart, but you have to just let me be sometimes.”

“I need to make sure you're safe.” Erik swallows deeply and looks away. “If anything happened to you, I don’t know what I would do. I can’t be responsible for hurting you again, Charles. I can’t let it happen.”

“I know.” Charles puts his hand on Erik’s shoulder. “But nothing is going to happen to me. Sean is going to drive me down to the city and drop me off right at the door. I’ll call you as soon as I get there and as soon as we’re leaving. Will that make you feel better?”

“It would make me feel better if I drove you myself.”

“I need this, love. Let me go. And promise me that the next time you’re worried about me, you'll speak to me about it in private, and not in front of the entire staff. How am I supposed to maintain any kind of authority if you go around announcing to everyone that you don’t trust me on my own for an afternoon?”

“It's not that I don't trust you.”

“It feels that way sometimes. And that's how it sounded today.”

Erik sighs and turns his body a little closer to Charles. “I'm not going to talk you out of this, am I?”

“I'm afraid not.”

“Stubborn.”

“Said the pot to the kettle.”

The mood between them lightens, only barely, only enough for Charles to sense it.

“You'll call me as soon as you arrive,” Erik says. “And as soon as you're leaving. And if you leave campus for any reason, you won't go alone.”

“I promise.”

It's enough to placate Erik, whose shoulders relax a little. “I didn't mean to get so upset about this,” he confesses. “It's not like you don't go places without me. But we usually talk about it first; you don't usually spring it on me in the middle of a staff meeting.”

“I was hoping that this wouldn't be such a big deal anymore, after all these years.”

“It's always going to be a big deal, Charles,” he says quietly, and fingers the soft cotton of Charles' pajama bottoms, his eyes drifting along Charles' narrow thighs. He doesn't have the courage to say the rest of it, not that night, anyway.

“Come to bed,” Charles says, his voice heavy with weary affection, and takes Erik’s hand in his.

An uncertain moment passes before Erik agrees. “Okay,” he says, and sits up from the couch with an uncomfortable grunt. “But only because my back is already aching. We should really get a new couch.”


	5. May 1973

Charles thinks it's important that he and Erik go out together once in a while, just the two of them. Of course, to Charles, “once in a while” means “once or twice a week,” but because he's with Erik, who's allergic to fun, that usually means they have a date once a month, if Charles is lucky.

“I am not allergic to fun.”

“Then put those papers away – we're going to miss the movie.”

And if Charles really had his way, they would always go to the drive-in. There's really nothing better: they get to watch a movie, eat junk food, snuggle up together on the Cadillac's huge bench seat – a few times they even had sex in the car, right there, during the movie. And best of all they don't even have to get Charles' wheelchair out of the trunk for the entire date. They can spend the entire time anonymously making out in the car, just like everyone else.

But first: snacks.

“Okay,” Erik says, going over the list. “Popcorn, two large sodas, M&Ms, Bottle Caps, Goobers, and Raisinettes.”

“Ew, no, don't get Raisinettes.”

“I like Raisinettes.”

“They're all yours then.”

“What else?”

“You forgot Cracker Jacks,” Charles says.

“We're already getting popcorn. It's the same thing.”

“It's not the same thing.”

Erik adds Cracker Jacks to the list and puts it in his pocket. “You know, we never end up eating all this stuff.”

“I know that, but it's important to have variety. Besides, I know you use the leftovers to stock your desk.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” Erik says haughtily, pretending he has anything but candy in his bottom desk drawer.

“Of course not.” Charles smiles and gives Erik a peck on the lips.

“I'll be right back,” Erik says with a goofy smile on his face and heads off for the snack bar.

The drive-in is busy tonight. It's the first warm, clear Friday night of the summer, so of course the lot is packed and noisy with teenagers running from one car to the other, shouting and cheering and making out. He and Erik probably look like a pair of old men to them.

Charles pulls down the visor and takes a look in the mirror. He doesn't look so bad. He doesn't have dark circles under his eyes, unlike some tall German men he knows. Only a few stray lines on his forehead from frowning at students – that's only going to get worse, but no matter. It doesn't look so bad. He still has far fewer lines than some other people – people who might be standing on line at the drive-in snack bar at that very moment, probably grumbling about the prices.

But then the visor tilts and Charles gets a look at his hair, and as usual his heart sinks. Not only is his hair getting worse, it seems like it's getting worse by the day. The distance from his original hairline to where it starts now is almost a full finger's length at the temples. He's left with just a narrow peninsula of hair down the middle of his head, which no matter how long 70s fashion allows him to grow it, still has to fall to one side or the other, revealing his shiny scalp underneath. And as for the back, well, he can feel that there's a large bald spot back there, and the fact that Erik has taken to touching and kissing it more often lately leads him to think that it's getting worse, too. But he never looks. It's too depressing.

He tilts the visor away from his hair again and checks his teeth. He's checking the glove compartment for lube and the metal paperweight Erik turns into a cockring for these sorts of occasions when the driver's side door opens.

“They didn't have Bottle Caps, so I got Twizzlers and Rolos,” Erik says, handing Charles the tray.

When he climbs in and shuts the door, though, he looks furious.

“What's the matter?” Charles asks.

“Do you know who's in the car two spaces over?”

“Who?”

“Scott and Jean.”

“Really?”

“Really. And do you know what they're doing?”

By the tone of Erik's voice, Charles thinks they might be murdering someone, but he only guesses, “Watching a movie?”

“They're necking, Charles! Necking!”

“Necking at the drive-in? Who ever heard of such a thing?”

Erik doesn't appreciate the sarcasm. “We can't allow this kind of behavior from our students.”

“They're not on school property. And there's nothing wrong with necking. I was rather hoping we would be doing some necking tonight.”

“Do you know what comes from necking?”

“What?”

“Surprise fourteen year old daughters.”

Charles rolls his eyes. “All right, well, what do you want me to do about it?”

“I don't know. What do you think?”

“I think we should leave them alone. I'll keep mental tabs on them, and if things get out of hand, I'll intervene.”

Erik makes a face. “I don't want you listening in on them necking while we're necking.”

“Are we still planning on necking, then? Oh, good. I was beginning to worry.”

“What if I make their car break down?” Erik suggests, chewing on a Twizzler. “That would ruin the mood.”

“Then they'll have a broken down car, and who do you think is going to have to help them?” Charles moves the candy tray out of the way and slides over towards Erik, taking his face in his hand. “Darling, they're fine. Forget about them. Just try to relax.” Charles rakes his fingers into Erik's (still thick, damn him) hair and kisses him full on the lips, causing him to melt, just a little.

“Mmm,” a happy little hum escapes Erik's lips, and he draws his hands up Charles' torso. Then quickly, suddenly, he pulls away. “I have an idea,” he says.

“What? No, Erik...”

But it's too late. He's already out of the car, casually walking over towards Scott and Jean, his hands in his pockets. Trying to get a better look, Charles slides over into the driver's seat and rolls down the window. He thinks he can see the top of Erik's head, leaning over Scott's car, but he can't hear anything they're saying. Probably the thing to do would be to listen in telepathically, but Erik hates when he does that, and Charles really wants to get laid tonight. So instead he waits patiently until Erik walks back over and gets back in the car, wearing a satisfied smirk on his face.

“What did you do?” Charles asks.

“Nothing. I just went over there to say hello. Told them you and I were here on a date, and we're two cars over if they need anything. But I told them, you know, you and I haven't been out together in a while, what with everything that's been going on at school, so if it looks like our windows are getting foggy they should just hang tight until the movie's over. Don't come knocking on the door.”

Charles gapes at him. “And what did they say?”

“They didn't say anything. They looked horrified. Honestly, I don't think I even had to do anything – just the sight of me in jeans and a t-shirt seemed to freak them out.”

Just then a car engine starts, and Scott and Jean pull out of the lot and drive away towards the exit.

Charles laughs. “They’re going back to school! Well, isn't that nice to know that the thought of us together is such a turnoff.”

“We're practically their parents, Charles. No one likes to think of their parents having sex. Especially not at that age.”

Charles pulls Erik closer. “Well, if we're going to ruin our students' date for ours then we better make it worth it.”

“Absolutely.” He puts his arm around Charles's shoulders. “Pass me the Raisinettes?”

Charles sighs. “Oh, all right. But don't forget I was promised necking.”


	6. June 1973

The Xavier-Lehnsherr Academy for the Gifted has a graduation ceremony every year like any other school. Unlike most schools, however, no one ever seems to leave after they’ve gotten their diploma. The school is just as packed in the summer as it is in the fall, and in many ways, it hardly feels like a break at all. The only difference is that there are no classes, and finally the faculty have some free time during the day to take care of things that have been neglected since September.

For Charles, that means maintenance on the house. There aren’t very many things he can do himself, but he is damn good at hiring people and telling them what to do.

Erik, on the other hand, immediately decides that the first thing he has to do is go to the store and get them both some new clothes. Well, he says both of them, but he’s the one who really needs some new things. He’s gained a few pounds and nothing fits him – not that he’s ever needed an excuse for new clothes.

He comes back from the store buried in shopping bags and looking very pleased with himself.

“You look like the cat that ate the canary,” Charles tells him.

“Wait ‘til you see,” says Erik, and opens up one of the bags. He pulls out a pair of green and mustard plaid pants. “What do you think?”

Charles gapes at him. “And who do you imagine is going to be wearing those?”

“Me. They’re very current.”

Charles chooses not to comment. “What else did you get?”

Erik pulls a few more things from the shopping bags: patterned dress shirts with oversized collars, bell bottom jeans, a corduroy jacket, colorful madras pants…

Charles finds a bit of brightly colored silk buried in the bottom of one of the bags. “What is this?” he asks.

“An ascot.”

“An ascot?”

“Yeah,” Erik says. “You wear it on your neck, like this.”

“I know what an ascot is.” Charles rubs at his temples.

“What? You don’t like what I bought? This is what’s in style now.”

Charles sighs. “You’re very fashionable, darling. I’m sure you will look great. You know I’ll love you in anything.”

“I bought some things for you, too.”

Charles braces himself as Erik dives into yet another shopping bag. What he pulls out is not nearly as horrible as Charles was anticipating, though. Erik bought him a new suit.

“It’s three pieces,” Erik says, holding it up for Charles to see. “I know you don’t have any other brown suits, so I thought you might like it for a little variety, and I got you a couple of shirts and ties to go with it. Do you want to try it on?”

Despite Erik’s devotion to fashion trends, however questionable they may be, he’s always had a knack for dressing Charles. When Erik tells him to wear something, he usually does, and as much as Charles hates to admit it, he’s rarely disappointed. This time is no different. The suit looks great on him. The jacket will need some tailoring, but the vest fits perfectly and shows off his upper body, especially when Erik insists he undo the top two buttons of the royal blue shirt he’s put on underneath. Charles takes off the jacket and rolls up his shirt sleeves. “Not bad,” he says, admiring himself in the mirror.

Erik scoffs. “Not bad? You look like sex on wheels.”

Charles rolls his eyes, but smiles to himself, just a little. “Fine. It’s a good suit. Thank you.”

“And maybe you won’t impugn my taste in clothing anymore.”

Charles reaches into another shopping bag. “Is this another suit?”

“That one’s for me,” Erik says, and pulls it out to show Charles. It’s another three piece: gray and blue plaid with wide lapels. “It’s Pierre Cardin.”

Charles arches an eyebrow at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Ahem](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m9tb2oJZ6T1rwvnzdo1_400.jpg).


	7. July 1973

Charles is the only person in the world taking a hot shower in the middle of the heat wave, but his shoulders have been aching and he feels like only the hottest water at the strongest pressure will cut through the film of sweat that's covered him head to toe. When he scrubs himself down, it feels as marvelous as it does at any other time of the year, and when he finishes and turns off the water, he feels clean and comfortable for the first time in a week.

Then he gets out of the shower, looks in the mirror, and it's gone. He must have scrubbed a little too hard. The front of his hair has washed away down the drain. That's the last of it: his last little bit of hair hope.

It shouldn't matter. He knows it shouldn't matter. Probably no one but him would even notice it, that those front few hairs are gone. He's spent too many hours over the past four or five years worrying about his hair, worrying about his looks. It's irrational. He knows it's irrational. Erik isn't going to leave him because his hair is thinning. It's absurd to let it even cross his mind.

But Charles would hear it. When they’re making love, when they’re completely entwined, mind and body, if one day it even drifts across Erik’s mind, that Charles isn’t as attractive as he used to be, that Erik’s having a harder time getting excited, Charles would hear it. It hasn't happened yet – Erik still loves him more than Charles can even believe, some days – but in his weaker moments, he’s lost hours worrying about how he’ll feel if one day Erik doesn’t want him anymore, and when he feels the comb scratch across his scalp...

He’s being irrational. He knows he’s being irrational. It’s just hair. Erik loves him very much.

But still his stomach drops, and he sits there at the sink looking in the mirror for so long that Erik steps into the bathroom to make sure he's okay.

“What's the matter?”

Charles says nothing. He only points to his head.

“What?”

“My hair. The front of my hair is gone.”

“Is that all? I thought you hurt yourself,” Erik says. “It's not that bad. You'd think the house was crumbling around you.”

“I shouldn't have scrubbed my head so hard. Now look what I've done.”

Erik rolls his eyes. “You know as well as I do that it's because you were in Cerebro for almost five hours yesterday. Honestly I don't know why you spend so much time worrying about your hair.”

That's rich, Charles thinks. Erik spends more time on his hair than most of the teenage girls.

Erik puts his hand on Charles's shoulder, standing behind him and watching Charles in the mirror. “Does this really bother you that much? Charles, really, it's not so terrible that you're losing your hair.”

“But you love my hair.”

“No, I don't!”

“Well, not anymore, obviously,” he pouts. “But when we got together you were always talking about my hair and running your fingers through it and...” Charles feels himself on the verge of losing his calm and takes a deep breath. “It's bad enough that I'm,” he starts, but stops himself. “I hardly recognize myself some days. You know that this is not the person you thought I'd turn into when we first got together. I'm turning into an old bald guy in a wheelchair.”

“Charles,” Erik says gently. “No one likes getting older. I mean, look at me. My hair is going gray and I'm getting fat.”

“You're a long way from fat.”

“Well I'm a lot closer than I was ten years ago,” he smiles. “I understand if you're upset about getting older for yourself, but I can't let you get upset about it because of me. I love seeing you get older. I love that I'm still here with you to see it. Don't forget I'm the one who's driving you so nuts your hair is falling out, and I'm quite proud of that.”

“I think the students get at least some credit.”

“Well, I think this spot,” he says, kissing Charles's bare right temple, “is from when you found out that I was teaching the students not to trust cops. And this,” he kisses the left, “is from when I let Scott practice on the topiaries.”

Charles is still pouting. “Good, so when you start finding me too hideous to share a bed with, I can remind you that it's your fault.”

At that, Erik stops nuzzling Charles' head and looks up, startled. “You don't really think that, do you?”

Charles shrugs, feeling slightly foolish. “I know I'm not as cute as I was when we met.”

“Cute?” Erik looks incredulous. “You're worried I don't think you're cute?” Erik spins Charles towards him and drops to his knees so they're face to face. “You’re right. You’re not cute anymore. You haven’t been cute in years.”

Charles’ eyes go wide with fear, and Erik puts his hand to Charles' cheek, strokes his cheekbone with his thumb.

“You’re handsome,” Erik says softly. “You’re… elegant. Charming. Sexy. You still think of yourself as a cocky young student, but that’s not who you are anymore. You are the architect of the mutant rights movement. You are the president and founder of one of the most influential institutions in the country. People write books about you. You are commanding. And you're getting more powerful by the day. Why do you think your hair is falling out so fast? It's because you're in Cerebro for hours on end, rescuing mutants from half a world away. Every bit of hair you lose is another life you've saved.” Erik tickles a bit behind Charles' ear. “How can you worry that I won’t find you attractive? To me, you get better and better. I wouldn't trade for the you I met eleven years ago, not even if I could. I love _you_ , the you I'm looking at right now.” He smiles. “And I happen to like your bald head. Or haven't you figured that out by now?”

Charles smiles through welling tears. “I thought you were making fun.”

“I wasn't making fun,” he says. “But speaking of getting older, I have to get up.” He grunts as he stands. “My knees can't handle that for long anymore.”

He moves back around behind Charles, the two of them looking into the mirror, Erik's hands on Charles's shoulders. “I hate how upset this makes you. I feel like every couple of weeks I'm talking you down off the ledge because you’ve noticed another bald spot,” he says, and runs his fingers through what's left of Charles' hair. “I promise you, I don't love you for your hair.”

“I know,” Charles says. He does know, but sometimes he needs the reassurance.

“I’ve told you before, if you're going to get this upset watching it fall out, I think you should just shave the rest of it off and be done with it.”

Charles rolls his eyes. “You don't really think I should shave my head.”

“Yes, I do.”

Charles peeks into his mind and Erik really does think he should do it, is ready to do it for him right then and there. He's as tired of this as Charles is. Erik is not going to leave him because he's no longer the young man he was when they met. He loves Charles more now than he ever did, and, surprisingly enough, he's a bit turned on at the thought of Charles shaving his head. He’s been dying to do it for months now. He thinks it will suit him, and Charles knows that Erik is usually right about these things.

Charles takes a deep breath. “Okay. But I want to do it myself.”

Erik smiles and kisses his temple once more.

“May I borrow your clippers, please?” Charles asks.

“Of course.” Erik pulls the electric razor out of the cabinet and hands it to Charles.

It rumbles and vibrates and whirrs menacingly when he switches it on. It's not set for a clean shave: instead it has on a guard from when Erik last used it to keep his sideburns neat. He leaves it that way for now, suddenly terrified. “Are you sure?” he asks Erik, who nods encouragingly. “Okay.”

He lifts the clippers to his temple.

He stops.

“I can't do it,” he says, and holds the clippers out to Erik. “You do it.”

“Me?”

Charles turns the clippers off and sighs. “You really won't think it's horrible? You promise?”

Erik takes the clippers from Charles and turns them back on. “Hold still, Charles.”

Charles only has time to gasp in surprise before Erik begins shaving his head. The clippers' vibration shivers down his spine, and bits of hair rain onto his still-naked shoulders. Mercifully, Erik starts on the sides. Charles had been afraid he'd start on the top, and he was dreading seeing himself with that horseshoe ring of hair that his grandfather had, even if it would have only been for a minute. But no, what he feared would be somewhere between depressing and humiliating turns out to be rather enjoyable. Erik is slow but deliberate with the clippers, and incredibly affectionate as he works, letting the last of Charles’ brown waves fall to the tile floor. It gives him an unexpected rush as Erik finally makes a pass over the top of his head, quickly removing all that's left there.

Within a few moments it's all over. Charles looks into the mirror and sees a bald man looking back at him, left with nothing but a five o'clock shadow on his head. It's not nearly as horrible as he thought it would be, and he can practically taste the relief and satisfaction and attraction rolling off of Erik. He reaches up and runs his hand over the 1/16th of an inch of hair that's left on his head.

“That's it, I guess,” he says.

“Oh, no. I'm not done yet.”

“What?”

Erik puts down the clippers and goes back into the drawer. He pulls out shaving cream and a razor.

Charles gulps.

The shaving cream is cool against his now-exposed scalp, especially since it's still sweltering in the bathroom from the hot shower. Again, Erik starts on the sides, this time removing his sideburns, too. Charles doesn't enjoy the razor nearly as much as he enjoyed the clippers, but it still gives him a thrill, watching Erik run the razor over his head, revealing nothing but smooth skin. It's shocking to him.

Even more shocking to see himself when it's done, and there's nothing left. Literally, not a hair left on his head, not the hint of a hair, not the slightest clue that there might ever have been hair there. It's...

“Perfect,” says Erik, pressing a kiss to the top of Charles' bald head. “Perfect.”


	8. August 1973

Charles had insisted, when they bought their cottage in Provincetown, that it be a two bedroom. No matter that Erik grumbled that he liked the little one on the beach, that it was supposed to be a getaway for just the two of them anyway – Charles put his foot down and bought the larger, further from the beach, two bedroom cottage instead. He didn’t think it was right to have a beach house without a guestroom, even if they never invited anyone along.

Now all he can sense from Erik’s mind is a fervent _don’t let Charles know he was right don’t let Charles know he was right_ as he leads Lorna to the nearly forgotten second bedroom, saying, “This can be your room.”

They’re still awkward around each other, still feeling out the boundaries of what father-daughter will mean in their case. For now it means that they sometimes walk into town together, just the two of them, for whatever flimsy reason Erik came up with that day. That they have their own private training sessions that no one is to disturb. That every once in a while Erik discovers some new similarity between them that leaves him smiling to himself for a couple of days. To most of the school, Lorna is simply Erik’s favorite student, and for the most part, that’s what it feels like.

Charles hopes that inviting Lorna along with them on their annual three week vacation in Cape Cod will change all that. That’s what this cottage is for, after all. This is supposed to be where they’re just a couple on holiday. Where Erik is Charles’ partner, not his colleague. And now, hopefully, where Lorna is Erik’s daughter, not his student.

They leave school first thing in the morning, so it’s still early when they arrive, and Charles is ready to go straight to the beach. Erik, on the other hand, wants to go to the store. The kitchen is empty and he’s had recipes floating through his head all week: he doesn’t get to cook at home, but here he has a kitchen, here he cooks every night while Charles reads and the radio plays in the background. They’ve both been looking forward to it all year.

Charles can’t remember anymore which of them is to blame for these annual extended holidays, and neither of them will confess to it. For his part, Erik claims that he can’t stand being around anyone but Charles, and while a seaside cottage in a quaint (if slightly counterculture) town would not be the top of his list, he always says he needs to go somewhere once a year where he can think for five minutes without someone asking him for something.

Charles doesn't have the same need to get away. The house in Westchester now holds so many happy memories that the old ones, the ones that made him flee to England and never want to look back, have been completely drowned out. The school is his home, his mission, his life’s work, the place where everyone he ever loved and ever will love all reside together under one roof. He no longer knows who he is if he’s not Professor X.

Which is why he needs these weeks away to remember who he is outside those walls, to devote himself entirely to the one person that means more to him than the school. There are times during the school year that they’re so busy that it feels like they hardly see one another except at staff meetings or in passing getting in and out of bed. By the time summer comes around, they miss each other desperately. For the month of August they barely leave each other’s sight.

At first they try to keep their displays of affection at a minimum to avoid making Lorna uncomfortable, and it’s an excruciating five days before Charles manages to convince Erik that Lorna won’t hear them having sex. Then, during the second week, Erik catches her making out with a boy under the lifeguard stand and all bets are off.

They have friends in Cape Cod: other gay couples who summer in Provincetown, who know them only as the men who own the blue house on the corner, who don’t follow mutant politics and have no idea who Magneto is. Charles invites them over for dinner a few times while Lorna’s off with new friends of her own, and he thinks they’re some of the best meals he’s ever had in his life. One night, when Lorna’s gone to bed, one of their friends pulls out a joint and they try grass for the first time. Charles quite enjoys it. It muffles his telepathy and gives him a serious case of the giggles. Erik, on the other hand, becomes very tactile and very paranoid. He spends most of the evening alternately petting Charles and looking out the window muttering about Sentinels, which only makes Charles laugh even harder.

They spend the weeks at the beach, enjoying the sunshine, Charles watching Erik and Lorna splash in the waves. They go fishing. They see a show at the local theater. Erik dozes in Charles' lap while Charles reads and strokes his hair. When it rains they stay inside playing cards and telling stories. Lorna makes Erik laugh until his sides ache. They hang around town, visiting the shops and stocking up on enough taffy to last Erik the rest of the year.

By the time they’re packing up the car on their last day, getting ready to head back to New York, Lorna is wrapping her arms around Erik's waist, whining that she wishes they didn’t have to go back to school.

As much as he misses it, Charles almost feels the same way. Maybe someday they won’t. Maybe someday this will be their life: just the two of them, in their little house, cooking and reading and gardening and strolling through town and dining with friends and enjoying each other’s company, no more demands, no more distractions. It’s still a long way off, but maybe someday.


	9. September 1973

“I’m buying a convenience store.”

Charles calmly caps his pen and takes off his reading glasses. “I’m sorry, you’re doing what?”

Not that he wasn’t expecting this from Alex – well, not this exactly, but school is starting again, and Alex is due for an escape. It’s been almost two years since he and Armando moved to Miami… for a month and a half before turning around and coming back. Before that, he worked as a carpenter for about six months. Before that he sold Buicks. Alex isn’t suited to this life, living in this house with all these children. He hasn’t found what he is suited for, not yet, but he’s restless.

Erik has no sympathy. He doesn’t understand why Alex doesn’t just suck it up and do something, why he can’t make a decision, why he puts Armando through this every couple of years. He doesn’t understand why Alex can’t appreciate how good he has it.

Which is why it’s Charles that Alex comes to, in Charles’ private office with the door shut, to give his resignation. Charles understands Alex’s desire to carve a life for himself, one that he chooses, rather than one he falls into, one that other people decide for him. Charles felt the same way when he left this house all those years ago and went to Oxford.

Even so….

“A convenience store?”

“Yes, a convenience store.”

Charles drums his fingers on the table and schools his face, remembering the argument they had the last time Alex came to him with a harebrained idea. He doesn't mean to be judgmental; he just doesn't understand why people don't listen to him when he gives them advice.

“Why a convenience store?” he asks in an even tone.

Alex gives him a spiel about it being a great business opportunity, which Charles nods through, but doesn’t really listen to – instead he’s listening to Alex’s thoughts. For all that Alex is going on about profit margins (and using the term incorrectly) what he’s really excited about is being someone else’s boss, having unlimited access to snack foods, hanging around the store and chatting with regular customers, and being respected as a business owner rather than being thought of as some slacker Charles and Erik keep employing out of pity.

It’s not pity, Charles wants to say. It’s loyalty. It’s family. Charles thinks of Alex as… not a son, but maybe a nephew he’s particularly fond of. Charles will have a place for Alex and Armando at the mansion for as long as they want to be there, be it another month or the rest of their lives. He doesn’t say it, though.

“Well, I wish you the best of luck,” Charles says instead. Alex knows he’ll always be welcome here.

He’ll be back in six months.


	10. October 1973

“Erik, were you still planning to be a vampire for Halloween again this year? Because I think I threw your fangs in the garbage during my cleaning jag a few months ago.”

“You threw out my fangs? Well if my fangs are gone I say we cancel Halloween altogether.”

“We are not canceling Halloween. You've lost that battle, darling, I’m sorry to say.”

“Maybe I'll take a vacation the last week in October.”

“You are not taking a vacation without me and I am not missing Halloween. We'll get you a new costume – maybe that will get you in the spirit. I was thinking about a new costume for myself, anyway. What do you think – Mr. Clean? Gandhi?”

“Lex Luthor?”

“Yul Brynner is bald - I could be Yul Brynner in _The King and I_.”

“How about Popeye? Or Mr. Magoo?”

“I could be Uncle Fester and you could be Gomez.”

“Yes! Now that is a great idea!”

“What? Absolutely not, Erik. I was joking.”

“I like it.”

“You only like it because you get to be Gomez. Gomez is good looking. I am not going as Uncle Fester.”

“Oh, _caro mio_ , you think Gomez is good looking?”

“Compared to Uncle Fester? Yes, and you know it. You wouldn't have agreed to it otherwise.”

“Think of it, _querido_. I can put on a nice suit, slick my hair back, I'll grow a mustache...”

“Oh, no, not the mustache again. And please stop kissing my arm – someone will see.”

“Let them see, _mi amor_.”

“Oh, all right all right. You can be Gomez. But I am not dressing as Uncle Fester.”

“We could get you a long black wig and you can be Morticia.”

“Yes, I'm sure the students' parents will love hearing that I dressed in drag and we went as a couple.”

“I think you would look quite fetching as Morticia, Charles. Maybe shaving your head was the wrong idea. Maybe you should have grown your hair out and dyed it black. Hey – do you think Lorna would go as Wednesday Addams? Should I ask her?”

“I’m sorry, love, but I think you missed the window for father-daughter Halloween costumes by about ten years. Cute as you are for even thinking of it. Now, what about me? What should I do? Maybe I'll go as a cowboy and make my chair look like a horse.”

“I don't know, I kind of liked the Mr. Clean idea. That just means you'll be wearing a tight white t-shirt, right?”

“And a gold hoop earring.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“I think I want to do something with the chair, though. My other idea was Caesar.”

“Caesar?”

“I thought I could make my chair look like a Roman chariot, and I could wear a toga and laurels on my head.”

“You’re going to wear a toga?”

“Well, a sheet, really, but I thought it would be fun. I just hope it’s not too cold. I’ll have to wear pants underneath, but my arms would be exposed… don’t tell me… seriously? That turns you on?”

“Charles, you’re talking about wearing nothing but our bedsheets. How do you expect me to react?”

“Well, I guess I’m going as Caesar, then.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

“I'm glad to hear it.”

“Gomez wore pinstripes, didn't he? Do I have any pinstriped suits?”

“See? I told you a new costume would get you excited for Halloween.”

“I'm just excited that you're going to let me grow a mustache and smoke a cigar in the house.”

“Now, wait, I never said that.”


	11. November 1973

Moira marches over to Erik as soon as she spots him, whipping off her aviator shades and glaring at him the way all federal agents seem to, as if they were taught sass as part of their training course. He can’t understand why she bothers with the posturing around him anymore; it’s not like they just met.

“What are you doing here?” she asks. “Where’s Charles?”

“He’s feeling a little under the weather. Nice to see you, too.”

“We really could have used Charles.” She looks around the scene. Four squad cars are lining the residential street, but she’s looking to the distance, watching the cars that are turning down the block. “I don’t know how much time we have before SHIELD gets here, and then it’s going to be a lot harder to take the kid without a telepath to smooth things over.”

The kid in question is a mutant who just manifested, letting loose a blast that rocked the neighborhood and left his poor parents unconscious. Moira and Erik weren’t there fast enough to beat the local authorities, but hopefully they can contain the situation and whisk him back to the school before the feds get a hold of him.

“Can’t you just bat your eyes at Coulson and make out with him behind a tree while I save the day?” Erik asks.

“I’m not dating him for your convenience, and it wouldn’t work anyway. He’d see right through it.”

“Remind me again why you’re here? I thought the whole point was that you’re our inside man.”

“SHIELD is above me.”

“And again I ask: if your boyfriend is in our way, and you won’t get him out the way, then what’s the point of you being here?”

Moira glares at him. “What is your problem? Are you still mad at me because I came to the Halloween party dressed as Morticia? How was I supposed to know you were dressing as Gomez this year?”

“Everyone thought we were a couple!”

“Trust me, no one thinks we’re a couple. Now are we going to go in and get this kid before Phil gets here? Because the clock is ticking.”

“Fine. Let’s do it.”

For all that he complains about Moira, and has been complaining about her for a decade now, it is awfully convenient having a CIA agent around sometimes. All he had to do today was show up in a conservative suit with a dark overcoat – that’s enough to look like a CIA agent to most of the local patrol cops – so he can just follow her and her badge right into the house, no questions asked.

The place is a wreck. There are scorch marks and small fires all over the place, but considering the unconscious parents and the effect it had on Charles, Erik can’t tell if this blast was made of energy or fire or if it was psionic or what. All he can say for sure is that the little boy is terrified and the authorities are going to take him if Erik doesn’t get him back to the school first.

He allows Moira to approach him first. “Billy? Are you all right?”

He’s sitting in a corner with his knees tucked to his chest, weeping. Outside Erik hears sirens – the ambulance, probably, for the parents.

“Billy, my name is Moira and this is my friend, Erik. I’m a CIA agent. Do you know what that means?”

Billy sniffles.

Erik crouches down. “Your parents are going to be just fine, I promise. They’re going to go see a doctor and we are going to make sure they get better as fast as possible. And while they’re with the doctors, you’re going to come with us. We’ll take you someplace safe. You’re not in trouble, Billy. Not with us.” He doesn’t want to say that the people coming up behind him might think he’s in trouble – he doesn’t want to frighten him – but it’s on the tip of his tongue.

Billy looks up at him, big blue eyes welled with tears, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

“Are you going to come with me?” Erik asks.

Billy nods and holds his arms up – he’s only about four years old. Of course he wants to be carried. Erik lifts him into his arms and carries him out of the house, Billy sobbing the whole way. Erik rubs his back and does his best to calm his tears, making a mental note, as Billy wraps his arms around Erik’s neck and buries his face in his shoulder, to have this coat dry cleaned.

Erik buckles him into the back and gets into the driver’s seat as Moira goes to talk with one of the cops, probably to tell him some story as to why this tall stranger in the dark overcoat is taking the kid away. He should probably thank her, he thinks, but just as he’s rolling down the window to call her over to the car, he sees SHIELD’s distinctive black sedans come barreling down the street. There’s no time for chatting with Moira; he puts the car in drive and heads back to school. He’ll send her a note or something.

 

*

 

Their bedroom is still dark, still colder than the rest of the house. He turns off the hall lights before he opens their door to make sure it doesn’t disturb Charles, who’s been in bed for nearly 48 hours now. Erik tiptoes to the edge of the bed and sits gently, so as not to rock the mattress. Charles is awake, but unmoving.

“Are you feeling any better?” Erik whispers.

Erik takes Charles’ tiny frown for a no – when Charles is knocked out by these Cerebro migraines, he can’t speak, can’t express himself telepathically. It’s too painful. Shaking his head to say no is out of the question. Erik lays the cold washcloth he’s brought from the bathroom over Charles’ forehead. Charles’ eyes drift closed and he smiles, just slightly, letting Erik know that the cold compress feels good.

At least he can do this for Charles, Erik thinks. He can’t make the headache go away, and there’s no medicine he can fetch, but at least he can make sure Charles is comfortable while he waits for it to subside. He can turn off the lights, tamper with the heating ducts to make sure the room is cool, but not too cold. He can pester Beast endlessly to make sure he's doing everything he can to make sure Cerebro is safe for Charles. He can take over some of Charles’ duties around the school to make sure the rest of the house doesn’t disturb him. He can bring him a cold compress, and kiss him gently on the cheek, the eyes, the nose, the lips, anything to make him feel a little better.

“How is the boy?” Charles manages to whisper, and it melts Erik a little to see that, even when he’s completely knocked out like this, he’s still worrying about the students.

Erik smiles and puts his hand on Charles’ chest. “He’s settling in,” he says, as quietly as he can. “His parents have woken up, and they’re going to be fine. I’ve already been to the hospital to talk to them, and I brought Billy so he could see they’re all right. They’re going to let him stay here for the time being, at least until they’re back on their feet.”

“Good.” Charles closes his eyes.

Erik leans over and kisses him one more time, then moves to leave, but Charles takes his hand.

“Don’t go yet,” he whispers, his eyes still closed. “Stay with me.”

“Okay,” Erik whispers, and sits back down on the edge of the bed, holding Charles’ hand.


	12. December 1973

Erik gets home at 5:45 on Christmas Eve, after ransacking the local grocery store for a few last minute items. Seriously last minute – their holiday party is starting at 6:00.

This isn't the big, school Christmas party. That's tomorrow: an annual, all day event, featuring a feast of a breakfast, a feast of a dinner, an enormous tree, games and presents for everyone. A Christmas nightmare, in Erik's mind, but everyone else seems to enjoy it.

Christmas Eve, on the other hand, is reserved for family. Every year on Christmas Eve, they open up their private corner of the mansion and throw a little party for that short list of people who are more than just students or coworkers - Raven and Irene are coming, of course, plus Moira and Phil. Alex and Armando. Hank, Sean, and Scott. Ororo, Jean, and Warren. Piotr and Illyana are coming this year, and Piotr is bringing Kitty, which has stirred some gossip. Emma was invited, but can't make it this year.

(For the first few years, Erik put up a token fuss: why do they have to have two Christmas parties, he's Jewish, why can't they just go celebrate just the two of them, Cape Cod must be pretty this time of year, let's avoid the whole mess altogether, et cetera, et cetera. But as time went on, he could see that this means the world to Charles, gathering their little family together for food and presents and – worst of all - carols, so now he participates willingly, if not completely enthusiastically.)

So far, however, the only people there are the same people who were there when Erik left: Charles and Lorna. The two of them have been there all day decorating – they were the ones who sent him to the store. Now, however, they're out on the balcony drinking cocoa and watching the students have a snowball fight.

Erik leaves the shopping bag by the door and gets a few blankets and things out of the closet before he goes outside to join them.

“Oh good! You're back.” Charles says when he sees him. “I was beginning to wonder what was taking you so long. How was the store?”

“Crowded,” he says. “It is thirty degrees outside. At least put a few more blankets on your lap if you're going to stay out here.” He wraps the blankets around Charles and hands him a hat and another scarf.

“I'll take the blankets and the scarf but I draw the line at a hat.”

Erik puts it on him anyway. “You'll catch cold.”

Charles rolls his eyes and takes it off. “I will not catch a cold – colds are viruses and have nothing to do with the weather. Besides, I look stupid in hats.”

“You don't look stupid. You look warm.”

“I don't like hats. I never have. I won’t wear a hat.”

“Fine,” Erik says, and puts the hat on Lorna's head instead. It looks cute on her, he thinks. Her hair is shorter than it was when she first arrived – she's been growing out the green and a few weeks ago she cut off the last of the bleached ends – so there are now bright green curls peeking out the bottom of the hat. Mutant and proud, just like him. “How about you? Are you warm enough?”

“I'm fine,” she tells him.

“Well, I'm going inside,” says Erik. “I hope you'll both join me before frostbite sets in.”

He steps back into the house - there would have to be something way more interesting than a snowball fight happening for him to stay out there more than a minute. Lorna must feel the same way about the cold as he does, because she follows him in just a minute later.

“Dad! Dad!” she whispers frantically.

“What's the matter?”

“I need you to take me to the store.”

“What? No. I just got back.”

“Please? You have to!”

“Why?”

“I need to get a present for Charles.”

Erik frowns. “You got him something. I saw it – it's under the tree right over there.”

“I need to get him something else. I can't give that to him.”

“Why not?” Erik is beginning to get frustrated, and crosses his arms over his chest.

Lorna crosses her arms over her chest, too, and sighs, looking a little embarrassed. “I made him a hat. I knitted him a hat, and he hates hats. I'm not giving it to him.”

“Oh.” Erik softens a bit. “If you made it for him, then I'm sure he'll wear it. He's crazy about you.” Erik has caught Charles referring to Lorna as _their_ daughter more than once; he's never corrected him.

“No! He'll only wear it because he'll feel bad about it! I'm not giving it to him!”

“Well, I'm not going back to the store.” Erik thinks for a minute and walks over to the tree, where he finds a package wrapped in green paper with a red ribbon: “To Charles, Love Lorna” the card says. There's a matching one next to it: “To Dad, Love Lorna.” As he switches the cards he says, “Well, I like hats, and I'll especially like one that you made yourself.” He holds out the two gifts, now with swapped recipients. “Will this work?”

Lorna looks unsure. “I guess so.”

“Is it anything that can't possibly be for him?”

“No,” she pouts, “but I wanted to give that to you.”

He puts a hand on her shoulder. “Whatever it is, I'll know it was intended for me. And Charles is very good at sharing.”

 

*

 

Opening Christmas presents is one of Charles’ favorite activities in the entire world, but according to him, the mood has to be just right. They have to wait until everyone has arrived. Everyone needs to be full of food and feeling festive and gathered around the fire. If they’ve only been through one pitcher of egg nog, and Charles hasn’t started singing along to Bing Crosby on the hi-fi, then it’s still too early (and perhaps the egg nog needs a bit more brandy).

It’s not until almost 9:00 that Charles finally reaches down from his seat on the new couch, pulls a package out from under the tree, and says (with only a hint of slurring), “Hmm, where did this come from? Has Santa been here already?” Charles is a cornball, Erik thinks, but wraps his arm around his waist anyway, and kisses the side of his head.

They don’t bother with opening things one by one. Instead, people give at their own pace, and all across the room there are bursts of, “Thank you!” “Oh, this is so nice!” “Merry Christmas!” For the most part, Charles just sits back and watches with a warm smile on his face. Erik sits beside him, a hand at the small of Charles’ back, enjoying the waves of contentment rolling off of him. This must be heavenly for a telepath, Erik thinks. No wonder Charles loves Christmas.

Lorna walks over to them with a bashful smile and two presents in her hands. “These are for you from me,” she says, and hands them each their gifts. “Merry Christmas.”

Erik waves her over to sit beside him on the couch and pulls her in close. “What could this be?” he murmurs as he unwraps the box. “A hat!”

“I knitted it myself.”

It’s deep blue and perfectly made with soft, finely spun wool; it must have taken her a long time. “It’s perfect,” Erik says, and puts it on his head. “I love it. Thank you.”

Erik then turns to Charles, who tears open the second present from Lorna, the one that was supposed to be for him. It’s clearly nothing knitted – Erik can sense aluminum inside the package, though he’s trying to keep his metallic senses in check so as not to spoil the surprise.

Charles carefully opens the box and lifts out a picture frame. Its base is aluminum, but Lorna has glued seashells all over it. The photo is Lorna and Erik at the beach in Cape Cod, Erik in his trunks and Lorna in her bikini. They’re smiling at each other over some shared joke while the waves crash behind them. Erik never even knew Charles had snapped the picture.

“My two favorite people,” Charles says. “Thank you, Lorna. It’s beautiful.” He waves her over and gives her a hug.

When she stands up, she looks over to Erik.

“Thank you,” he says, and also pulls her down to give her a hug, kissing her cheek. “I love it. Thank you.”

 

*

 

“You know that photograph from Lorna was meant to be for you, don’t you?” Charles asks Erik as they’re getting into bed later that night.

“Yes,” Erik says, climbing under the covers. “And all because you threw a fit when I tried to put a hat on you.”

Charles rolls his eyes. “I didn’t throw a fit. And the hat will look better on you than me anyway.” He pulls Erik close to him, still sloppy from the egg nog. “She is very cute, you know.”

“Of course she is. She takes after me.”

Charles laughs and kisses him. “And so modest, too.” He kisses him again, letting his hands wander down to Erik's rear end with tipsy enthusiasm.

Erik laughs along with him and reaches out with his powers to turn off the lights. And while he’s at it, he reaches through the house. Most of the lights are out throughout the school - all but the occasional lamp in one of the dormitories, probably some of the students up talking or wrapping gifts for the school party tomorrow. All is well.

“Merry Christmas, Charles.”

“Merry Christmas, my love. And a happy New Year.”

“This year isn’t over for another week.”

“Oh, shush.”


End file.
